Night Whispers
Page 27
"I believe I do. Yes," he added when she scowled.
"You may address me as Mrs. Reynolds."
"Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds," he replied courteously, managing to sound exactly like a chastened prep-school student instead of an FBI agent capable of bringing disaster down on her entire family.
Sloan's father finally stepped in. "Paris," he prompted his daughter, "I know you've been looking forward to this moment—"
Paris Reynolds took her cue and stood up in one graceful, fluid motion, her gaze fixed politely on Sloan. "Yes, I have." She said this in an exquisitely modulated but cautious voice and held out a perfectly manicured hand. "How do you do?" she asked.
How do I do what? Sloan wondered irreverently (or a little desperately). The phrase Stepford Sister flitted through her mind. "I've been looking forward to meeting you, too," Sloan replied, shaking hands with the cultured stranger who was her sister.
Edith Reynolds had already wearied of the social niceties. "I'm sure that Sloan and Mr. Richardson would like to freshen up and rest before dinner," she said. "Paris will show you both to your rooms," she informed Sloan. "We gather for dinner at seven. Do not be late. And do not wear pants."
Sloan had dreaded and expected a long and awkward interview with her father and sister as soon as she arrived, so she was surprised and a little relieved that she was being given a two-hour reprieve by the old dragon. Although, her instincts told her that if Edith Reynolds had known Sloan wanted a reprieve, she probably would have insisted on the interview.
"Paris will make certain you're comfortably settled in," Carter Reynolds interjected with a warm, conciliatory smile at Sloan and then Paul. "We'll see you both at dinner."
Sloan followed in Paris's wake with Paul walking beside her, his hand touching her elbow in a polite, familiar way that fitted his assumed role as her boyfriend. She was so bemused by these peculiar people that she scarcely noticed the rooms they passed as they walked toward the foyer and climbed a long curving staircase with a wrought-iron railing and thick brass handrail. Thus far, the most "human" of the three was Carter Reynolds, whom she'd expected to be the most unlikable.
At the top of the staircase, Paris turned left and continued walking until they were almost at the end of the hall. "This is your room, Mr. Richardson," she intoned as she swung the door open on a spacious room decorated in jade green with massive Italian furniture. His suitcases were lying open on the bed. "If you need anything at all, just press the intercom button on the telephone," she said, and finished off her impeccably courteous speech with an equally courteous smile before she started down the hall again.
Paul had said people thought she was cold and aloof. She was worse than that—she was completely lifeless, Sloan decided with a twinge of disappointment that surprised her with its sharpness. Paris even moved as if the simple act of walking was actually a precisely orchestrated dance—her feet balanced on the high heels of her sandals, not too much hip movement, no swinging of the arms, shoulders back, head up.
"I'll see you at dinner, Sloan," Paul called softly.
Startled that she'd momentarily forgotten to play her part in the pretense, Sloan turned and said the first thing that came to mind. "Have a nice nap."
"You, too."
At the end of the hallway, Paris stopped at another door, opened it, and made the identical speech she'd made to Paul, complete with identical vocal inflections and matching perfunctory smile, but this time she hovered in the doorway as if waiting for something. She was probably expecting some sort of reaction to the accommodations, Sloan assumed as she glanced around at a spectacular suite decorated in shades of pale rose and cream-colored silks with delicate French furnishings glowing with gold leaf. Beneath her feet, the Oriental carpet was so thick it was like walking in sand. "This is—lovely," she said lamely, turning to face her sister in the doorway.
Paris made a graceful gesture toward a pair of French doors. The balcony has a view of the ocean that's particularly nice at sunrise."
"Thank you," Sloan said, feeling increasingly awkward.
"Nordstrom brought up your suitcases," Paris observed with a regal nod in the direction of the canopied bed at the far end of the suite. "Shall I send someone up to help you unpack?"
"No, thank you." Sloan waited for her to leave, wanted her to leave, but she hovered there in the doorway, her hand on the doorknob. Sloan belatedly realized that the dictates of social etiquette that seemed to govern her sister's thoughts, words, and actions must now require that Sloan take a turn at some sort of conversation. She said the only thing that came to mind. "Are you an artist?"
Paris looked at her as if she'd spoken in a foreign dialect. "No. Why do you ask?"
Sloan nodded at the large tablet in her hand. "I thought that was a sketch pad."
"Oh, I forgot I was carrying this. Yes, it is. But I'm not an artist."
Frustrated by her unhelpful reply, Sloan looked at the sleek brunette posed in the doorway like a Vogue model and suddenly wondered if Paris could possibly be shy, rather than aloof. Either way, carrying on a conversation with her was like trying to give yourself a backrub, but Sloan tried again. "If you're not an artist, what do you use the sketchbook for?"
Paris hesitated; then she walked forward and offered her sketchbook to Sloan like a queen holding out a scepter. "I'm designing my own line of women's apparel."
Clothes! Sloan thought with an inner groan. Sara loved to talk about clothes; Kim loved to talk about clothes; Sloan didn't have a fashion-conscious corpuscle in her entire body. Sloan accepted the sketchbook and followed Paris to the bed, where she sat down and opened the cover of the book.
Even to Sloan's inexpert eye, it was immediately obvious that Paris wasn't designing clothes for the average woman. She was designing high-fashion, high-style cocktail dresses and formal gowns that Sloan knew instinctively would cost as much as a good, late-model used car. Trying desperately to think of something articulate and appropriate to say, Sloan turned the pages in silence until she came to a sheath dress and suddenly remembered how Sara had described her own red one. "Oh, I like this very much!" she burst out a little too enthusiastically, she thought. "It's 'flirty' but not… um… 'forward'!"
Paris peered over at the sketchbook to see what had taken her fancy and then looked rather disappointed. "I think it's a little common."
"You may address me as Mrs. Reynolds."
"Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds," he replied courteously, managing to sound exactly like a chastened prep-school student instead of an FBI agent capable of bringing disaster down on her entire family.
Sloan's father finally stepped in. "Paris," he prompted his daughter, "I know you've been looking forward to this moment—"
Paris Reynolds took her cue and stood up in one graceful, fluid motion, her gaze fixed politely on Sloan. "Yes, I have." She said this in an exquisitely modulated but cautious voice and held out a perfectly manicured hand. "How do you do?" she asked.
How do I do what? Sloan wondered irreverently (or a little desperately). The phrase Stepford Sister flitted through her mind. "I've been looking forward to meeting you, too," Sloan replied, shaking hands with the cultured stranger who was her sister.
Edith Reynolds had already wearied of the social niceties. "I'm sure that Sloan and Mr. Richardson would like to freshen up and rest before dinner," she said. "Paris will show you both to your rooms," she informed Sloan. "We gather for dinner at seven. Do not be late. And do not wear pants."
Sloan had dreaded and expected a long and awkward interview with her father and sister as soon as she arrived, so she was surprised and a little relieved that she was being given a two-hour reprieve by the old dragon. Although, her instincts told her that if Edith Reynolds had known Sloan wanted a reprieve, she probably would have insisted on the interview.
"Paris will make certain you're comfortably settled in," Carter Reynolds interjected with a warm, conciliatory smile at Sloan and then Paul. "We'll see you both at dinner."
Sloan followed in Paris's wake with Paul walking beside her, his hand touching her elbow in a polite, familiar way that fitted his assumed role as her boyfriend. She was so bemused by these peculiar people that she scarcely noticed the rooms they passed as they walked toward the foyer and climbed a long curving staircase with a wrought-iron railing and thick brass handrail. Thus far, the most "human" of the three was Carter Reynolds, whom she'd expected to be the most unlikable.
At the top of the staircase, Paris turned left and continued walking until they were almost at the end of the hall. "This is your room, Mr. Richardson," she intoned as she swung the door open on a spacious room decorated in jade green with massive Italian furniture. His suitcases were lying open on the bed. "If you need anything at all, just press the intercom button on the telephone," she said, and finished off her impeccably courteous speech with an equally courteous smile before she started down the hall again.
Paul had said people thought she was cold and aloof. She was worse than that—she was completely lifeless, Sloan decided with a twinge of disappointment that surprised her with its sharpness. Paris even moved as if the simple act of walking was actually a precisely orchestrated dance—her feet balanced on the high heels of her sandals, not too much hip movement, no swinging of the arms, shoulders back, head up.
"I'll see you at dinner, Sloan," Paul called softly.
Startled that she'd momentarily forgotten to play her part in the pretense, Sloan turned and said the first thing that came to mind. "Have a nice nap."
"You, too."
At the end of the hallway, Paris stopped at another door, opened it, and made the identical speech she'd made to Paul, complete with identical vocal inflections and matching perfunctory smile, but this time she hovered in the doorway as if waiting for something. She was probably expecting some sort of reaction to the accommodations, Sloan assumed as she glanced around at a spectacular suite decorated in shades of pale rose and cream-colored silks with delicate French furnishings glowing with gold leaf. Beneath her feet, the Oriental carpet was so thick it was like walking in sand. "This is—lovely," she said lamely, turning to face her sister in the doorway.
Paris made a graceful gesture toward a pair of French doors. The balcony has a view of the ocean that's particularly nice at sunrise."
"Thank you," Sloan said, feeling increasingly awkward.
"Nordstrom brought up your suitcases," Paris observed with a regal nod in the direction of the canopied bed at the far end of the suite. "Shall I send someone up to help you unpack?"
"No, thank you." Sloan waited for her to leave, wanted her to leave, but she hovered there in the doorway, her hand on the doorknob. Sloan belatedly realized that the dictates of social etiquette that seemed to govern her sister's thoughts, words, and actions must now require that Sloan take a turn at some sort of conversation. She said the only thing that came to mind. "Are you an artist?"
Paris looked at her as if she'd spoken in a foreign dialect. "No. Why do you ask?"
Sloan nodded at the large tablet in her hand. "I thought that was a sketch pad."
"Oh, I forgot I was carrying this. Yes, it is. But I'm not an artist."
Frustrated by her unhelpful reply, Sloan looked at the sleek brunette posed in the doorway like a Vogue model and suddenly wondered if Paris could possibly be shy, rather than aloof. Either way, carrying on a conversation with her was like trying to give yourself a backrub, but Sloan tried again. "If you're not an artist, what do you use the sketchbook for?"
Paris hesitated; then she walked forward and offered her sketchbook to Sloan like a queen holding out a scepter. "I'm designing my own line of women's apparel."
Clothes! Sloan thought with an inner groan. Sara loved to talk about clothes; Kim loved to talk about clothes; Sloan didn't have a fashion-conscious corpuscle in her entire body. Sloan accepted the sketchbook and followed Paris to the bed, where she sat down and opened the cover of the book.
Even to Sloan's inexpert eye, it was immediately obvious that Paris wasn't designing clothes for the average woman. She was designing high-fashion, high-style cocktail dresses and formal gowns that Sloan knew instinctively would cost as much as a good, late-model used car. Trying desperately to think of something articulate and appropriate to say, Sloan turned the pages in silence until she came to a sheath dress and suddenly remembered how Sara had described her own red one. "Oh, I like this very much!" she burst out a little too enthusiastically, she thought. "It's 'flirty' but not… um… 'forward'!"
Paris peered over at the sketchbook to see what had taken her fancy and then looked rather disappointed. "I think it's a little common."
